Public Servant

As an avid global traveler, I pass through Indian airports routinely, but my transit through Delhi in May 2026 was part of an especially grueling journey. I was flying from Uzbekistan all the way to Mexico. It was a massive, multi-city voyage split across two separate itineraries.

The first leg brought me from Tashkent to Delhi. After a brief two-hour layover, my second itinerary began: an Etihad Airways routing that would take me from Delhi to Abu Dhabi, Abu Dhabi to Charlotte, and finally, Charlotte to Cancun.

When I landed in Delhi, I immediately sought out the transit staff to secure my onward boarding pass. They gave me two choices. The first was to wait an hour or more in the transit area for the Etihad gate agents to clock in and print my ticket. The second alternative was to formally exit the transit zone, clear arrival immigration, head up to the departure gates, queue at the main check-in counter, and then clear security back into the terminal. There was no way to know which route would actually save time, but the second option at least offered a psychological edge, it gave me a sense of momentum as I moved through each physical milestone.

I opted to exit. However, once I reached the immigration hall, I discovered there were no physical arrival forms available to fill out. I tried to log onto the digital portal, but between the airport’s weak infrastructure and a total lack of cellular reception, my phone was useless, despite paying AT&T’s $12-a-day international roaming fee. With no other choice, I simply joined the queue.

Ten minutes later, I neared the front of the line. The officer at the counter ahead of me was helping a Western tourist, smiling broadly and flirting as he processed her passport.

When I stepped up to his counter, his demeanor instantly shifted. He demanded my missing arrival form. I calmly explained that none were available and asked if he could provide one for me to fill out on the spot. He refused, his attitude instantly turning sharp. He told me I had to do it digitally because they no longer provided paper forms.

"There's no cellular signal here," I replied, keeping my composure. I explained that I was merely transiting to catch a flight to the US, and that forcing me to leave the line and queue all over again would jeopardize my tight connection.

"I don't care," he snapped. "Go to the kiosk." I assumed he meant one of the notoriously frustrating airport Wi-Fi kiosks that rarely seem to work for international travelers.

Frustrated, I toyed with the idea of standing my ground and demanding that his superior be called to the desk. But I took a breath, calmed down, and executed a smarter tactical move: I simply stepped into the queue right next to his counter.

Within five minutes, I approached a different officer. This agent, a woman, was the polar opposite of her colleague. She listened, understood the situation, and without any bureaucratic fuss, simply entered my information manually into her terminal. Five minutes after that, my passport was stamped, and I was on my way.